Issue 3, Autumn 1953
One night I reached a cave: I slept, my head
Full of the air. There came about daybreak
A red-coat soldier to the mouth who said
“I am not living, in hell’s pains I ache,
But I regret nothing.”
His forehead had a bloody wound whose streaming
The pallid staring face illuminated.
Whether his words were mine or his, in dreaming
I found they were my deepest thoughts translated.
“I regret nothing:
“Turn your closed eyes to see upon these walls
A mural scratched there by an earlier man,
And colored with the blood of animals:
Showing humanity beyond its span,
And I regretted nothing.